


the closest to heaven that i’ll ever be

by IvyOnTheHolodeck



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: AU - Afterlife, Bittersweet, Gen, Mood Without Plot, Spoilers for Season 3, because I CANT STOP WRITING ABOUT GHOSTS I GUESS, kabert this is your fault
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:34:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22399414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IvyOnTheHolodeck/pseuds/IvyOnTheHolodeck
Summary: Those who are pedantic say there is no sunlight, here at the end of the world.
Comments: 11
Kudos: 67





	the closest to heaven that i’ll ever be

Those who are pedantic say there is no sunlight, here at the end of the world. Pile a thousand river rocks into a tower and climb past the haze above, and your fingers would brush the cool stone of a cavern roof, smooth with the rubbing of a billion touches before your own.

Many run, when they realize where they’ve arrived, when they realize there will be no return voyage on the barge across the river. And many have tried to chase the river to its end, their bare feet pounding out a rebellion on the beaten path along the shore. Most are still running. Maybe they always will be.

Some, however, dare to wonder. They brush their hands over mossy rocks and rich earth, breathe in clean moist air. Perhaps they still run, but they cast their eyes about them, drinking it all in.

Of these observers, a few let their paces slow to nothing. A million million miles of riverbank stretch before them, beckoning, and they choose to stand still.

And then there are those who never tried to run in the first place.

Don’t believe me? Look, just there, at the man dancing by the shore, galaxy’s best smile turned skyward. He moves in time with the waters, twirling and folding to a haunting tune. No footprints follow him, and perhaps if you look too close you’ll find he never touches the ground at all.

When the song is over, he turns to its player. “That one’s new to me. Glad to know I haven’t learned your whole repertoire.”

“I’ve never played for you before,” says the person holding the guitar.

“You will, though,” says the dancer. “Time is funny here.”

The musician lays their guitar on the lush grass beside them and rolls their shoulders, smiling faintly. “You know, I’m almost sorry I don’t have to practice anymore. Anything I want to play, I already know. Never thought I’d miss the sour notes.”

“If you can play it, then you’ve practiced. Maybe you just haven’t done it yet. I told you, time is funny, here at the end of the world.”

The dancer sprawls on the grass, plucking a velvet flower from the bluff and offering it to his companion. The musician tucks it behind their ear, the blossom’s violet throat setting off the gold woven into their braids. “Do you miss it?”

“What,” asks the dancer, “being out there?” He chuckles. “Nah. I did at first, but I’ve been watching the waters. The person I care about, he’s okay now.” He gestures out to the river, whose glittering shoals go mirror-still. In the reflection, a lady and his family are piled next to each other on a worn couch, yelling silently at a flickering screen. The lady has his head nestled on a lanky man’s shoulder, his legs flung over the lap of a woman busy drizzling something electric blue over the popcorn bowl.

“I see what you mean,” says the musician, though their gaze is fixed on the tall man in the image, who bends a serious ear to the popcorn woman’s rambling.

The dancer waves his hand, and the vision dissipates. “Gives a whole new meaning to ‘watching streams.’ I’m hungrier than a Uranian swampsucker, you want to get lunch?”

The musician folds their hands behind their head, lying back against the springy mattress of grass. “You go ahead. I’d like to stay here awhile and enjoy the breeze. It’s a nice change. Where I come from, the winds aren’t what you’d call soothing.”

A soft thump makes them crack open an eye. The dancer gestures to the basket in his lap, covered in a red-and-white checkered cloth. “Takeout it is.”

The two share the picnic, purple berries and crusty bread with soft cheese, as they pass back and forth a canteen of sweet spring water. It’s a leisurely meal, the company as good as the food. The dancer speaks fondly of his sibling and the trouble they got into as children, sneaking into ballet recitals and unionizing the local sewer rabbits. In turn, the musician shares stories of the times they slipped from their academy’s dormitory at night to visit buskers on street corners, trading repair jobs for lessons. They pluck blades of grass from the earth almost absently, clever fingers weaving as they speak.

“What are you making?” the dancer asks.

“You’ll see. It’ll only be a few minutes.”

The dancer widens his eyes in plea, his mouth twitching toward a smile. “C’mon, you know that’s not how time works anymore.”

“Eternity might be just long enough to reach you patience,” says the musician dryly. And then, “Here.”

The dancer’s hands come up to cradle a tiny woven butterfly, its delicate antennae bobbing over his hand. “It’s beautiful.”

“Throw it into the air.”

The dancer complies, and the thin grass wings beat once, twice, then flutter like mad as it spirals upward. He laughs in delight. “That’s brilliant!”

“It won’t come back down,” says the musician. “Not a very useful toy.”

“It was something new, and it made my day better. Isn’t that enough?”

“I thought there were no days here at the end of the world.”

“See? Now you’re getting it.”

For a while after that, they say nothing at all, lulled by the lapping of the river against its shore. Each basks in the knowledge that the other is glad they exist. There is no past to regret, no future to fear, only asphodel blossoms bobbing in the wind.

Sometime later, the dancer asks, “What was that song you were playing?”

“An old Earth lament,” says the musician quietly. “It had nearly been lost to history. The producer must have thought she was being clever, tracking it down.”

“The producer?”

“Have you ever seen the stream ‘The Iris Blinks?’”

“Must have been after my time.”

“You didn’t miss much. The script writer couldn’t decide if they were making a thriller or a piece of political propaganda. They managed to unite Solar and Outer Rim critics for the first time in centuries on the simple fact that the film was a flop. Only just salvageable part was the soundtrack. Would you like to hear the lyrics?”

“If you’re down to play, yeah, I’d love that.”

The musician pulls their guitar from the edge of the embankment. The dancer closes his eyes as the musician’s fingers flit across the strings.

Those who are pedantic say there is no sunlight, here at the end of the world. But on this embankment lies a dancer who knows better, sunbeams warming his face as he listens to his friend sing.

_ I don’t want the world to see me _

_ Cause I don’t think that they’d understand _

_ When everything’s made to be broken  _

_ I just want you to know who I am. _

**Author's Note:**

> So that sure was an episode, huh?
> 
> The song M’Tendere plays is “Iris” by The Goo Goo Dolls, which is also the inspiration for the fic’s title.
> 
> I’m on tumblr at [ivyontheholodeck](https://ivyontheholodeck.tumblr.com) \- come say hi!


End file.
